


Between Midnight and Dawn

by Charis



Series: Never and Always [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Generational Friendship, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, Historical References, Mild Alternate History, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Trust Issues, Tumblr made me do it, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 18:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6716596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charis/pseuds/Charis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This war of words and hidden knives began the day the King died, was cemented the day the Queen took sole regency.</i> As one battlefield is exchanged for another, Athos and Milady try to rebuild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Midnight and Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is for everyone who asked if I’d ever write a sequel to _Never and Always_. I hope it ends up being what you wanted.  <3
> 
> In keeping with the existing theme, title and opening quote are from T.S. Eliot’s _Four Quartets_.

_It was not (to start again) what one had expected._  
_What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,_  
_Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity_  
_And the wisdom of age?_  
_\- T.S. Eliot,_ East Coker

The road from Münster to Paris had been long and hard, made worse by a late-season storm that had turned the pleasant spring air chill before soaking her to the bone. A part of Anne regrets not handing this run off to one of her couriers, staying a little longer in the Empire and returning to France at a more sedate pace, but the case she wears strapped beneath her skirts is too important to hand off to anyone else -- and if she’s honest with herself, she _needs_ to be back in Paris. Between the situation she’d left behind and the murmurs she’s heard in the endless weeks at the Imperial court, she can’t help but worry.

It’s strange, even now, to realise how that’s changed -- that she _does_ worry about the people she’d left in France, and not only for the self-serving reasons she still claims aloud. But the months and years of the war have changed everyone they’ve touched and she is no different, has found unexpected kinship and friendship in corners she never anticipated. And though some part of her hopes that the treaty she carries means she can set those worries aside and see what peacetime will bring, she has never been naïve. Peace only means the war is now fought with words and hidden knives instead of in the open.

(This war began the day the King died, was cemented the day the Queen took sole regency. When she left the city five months ago, there were already rumours.)

But rumours will keep a little longer, and so she hunches into the damp folds of her cloak and wishes she were already at the centre of Paris and not its fringe. She wishes, too, that her journey could end with the indulgence of a hot bath, but she knows already she’ll have to make do with a quick change into dry clothing instead -- that Tréville and the Queen will need the news she brings before anything else.

When she had left, just after Epiphany, Paris had been quiet, subdued, almost as if it was mourning for all those it had lost, king and commoner alike. The city she rides through now is more familiar, not yet returned to the dynamic bustle she knows so intimately but well on its way. It’s recovering, and as she takes in the scenes around her (files them away to dissect later, because her brain is almost as tired as her body and she can ill-afford that sort of distraction right now) she lets herself hope for one brief moment before turning her thoughts resolutely to what lies ahead.

There’s little point, after four and a half years of open service to the crown, to the back ways she used to traverse but she slips through less-used ways all the same, leaves her gelding at the stables and takes a servant’s staircase inside. It’s partly habit but mostly expedience when Tréville’s offices are far closer this way. He won’t mind receiving her even if she looks like a drowned cat, and he can deliver the formal treaty to the Queen while she makes herself presentable again. But though the minister is usually in his office during the midmorning hours he’s nowhere to be found today; a different man stands looking out the window at the courtyard below, and she stops short just inside the doorway, frozen in surprise. And then he turns, and their eyes meet, and the whispered sound of her name (he looks, as she suspects she must, half-convinced that he’s dreaming) frees her from her paralysis.

“I was wondering when you’d come back,” she says by way of greeting, managing to keep her voice even despite the tightness in her throat, managing to step into the room slowly when all she wants (foolish, as if she’s some green girl who still believes in romances) is to hold him and never let go. “Took you long enough.”

“It took you even longer,” he counters, and though the words are accompanied by a grimace there’s such a softness in his eyes, such a reverence in his touch when he closes the distance between them and curls his fingers against her cheek. They are warm against her chilled skin, warmer still for how she's missed him, and she closes her eyes for a moment, breathes him in.

“If I'd known you were already here, I might have argued with the queen when she sent me with Longueville.” But as much as she wants to linger this is not the time -- not when she should be searching for Tréville to hand over her cargo -- and so she pulls away to lay her cloak over one of the chairs. “When did you return?”

“Just before Holy Week.” He watches as she props one foot up on the seat, kilts up her skirts to free the case strapped to her thigh, and though she can feel the weight of his gaze he says nothing as she settles her clothes again, snaps open the latches to remove the heavy roll of paper. “Is that --?”

“The treaty? Yes. I was hoping Tréville would be around.”

“He’s with the queen.” Athos reaches for the papers and she lets him take them, paces the edge of the room stiffly as he reads. She's sore after four days in the saddle, tired from how she'd pushed to keep the journey as brief as possible, and no matter how much she wants this to be nothing more complicated than reuniting with her husband after far too long apart there are other matters to be attended to first.

“Take that to them.”

He looks up again, seems to notice for the first time her mud-splattered, windblown appearance and catches the question he’s clearly about to ask. “You'll be here?” is all he says instead.

“Waiting,” she agrees. The warmth of Tréville’s study is helping; by the time anyone returns, she may almost feel human again.

Again it seems as if he’s about to say something, to approach, but in the end he just straightens his doublet and nods. To anyone else that and his wordless departure might be cold, but she knows him better, is used even now to the undercurrents that eddy about all their actions, and the the look in his eyes before he turns away to slip out speaks volumes.

She keeps moving -- paces circles around the room, a path familiar after too many late nights closeted here, poring over reports from her operatives or updating Tréville’s map table or laying plans and trying to outmanoeuvre enemies without and within. If she stops she'll end up curling into some corner of the study and falling asleep, and while her mind could use the rest her body protests the idea. Maybe once she's worked her muscles loose again, driven the chill from her bones …

It has been nearly six months since Louis’ death and over four since she had left for Münster, ostensibly as a companion to the newly-married Madame de Longueville; the younger woman had provided her with plenty of opportunities to hear what the French and Spanish envoys were discussing, and pointed words dropped in the ears of the queen’s loyalists had ensured Ana’s interests were seen to. The preliminary treaty she carried back along with the formal cease-fire is far from perfect, but they’d known from the start there would be uncomfortable concessions, and it is the future of France that matters. If Longueville can follow through with the groundwork laid in these first agreements, that future will be secure.

But there are other matters that may touch on that future, not just from outside. Since she first saw the city on the horizon, a part of her mind has been busy cataloguing what she’ll need to do in order to find her footing in Paris again -- the letters Constance had included in the diplomatic packets travelling back and forth had of necessity been sparse, just enough for her to build a frame of events that she hopes to be able to flesh out quickly. She wants -- god, she _wants_ , down to her marrow -- to have time, to settle into things again, to renew the friendships forged over these past few years and to see where she and Athos stand, but time is the luxury most notably lacking here at the Louvre. Later there will be a chance (always later, it seems, but she knows how to wait), but first she needs to speak to Constance, to check in with Tréville, to see what the reports awaiting her contain --

Tréville has a habit of slamming the latch loose on doors a little harder than strictly necessary; whatever its origin, it announces his return clearly enough that she scarcely has time to do more than start from her thoughts before he’s striding into the office. The scowl on his face is no more than the habitual one, and she relaxes a hair’s breadth further at that. It’s good, means there’s nothing more than the usual irritants at court at play. She can handle ordinary.

“Well?” The gruff demand, too, is habitual, something she’s acclimated to in the years and doesn’t take offense at. She knows how the former captain hates politics, and how much of a relief being blunt in here is to him. (It’s refreshing, sometimes, especially when the days of deciphering political insinuations seem endless -- and especially now, when she’d had no one to be plain with abroad. She’s missed it too.)

She reaches out for one of the figures on the map table, picking it up and turning it over in her hands as Tréville joins her. Time to get back to work.

~ * ~

In the end, dusk is fast approaching by the time Athos makes his solitary way back to the Louvre. He had left the queen hours before in order to prepare his men for tomorrow’s court -- they’ll need to not only look their best but to be even more vigilant than usual, and he’d wanted to have ample time to make his expectations clear. He doesn’t expect trouble tomorrow, at least not of the sort the Musketeers are usually on guard for, but formal presentation of even this initial treaty will set the tone for the weeks that follow and his men will need to have eyes and ears open, to know of dissent early, especially when the queen’s regency is still looked at askance by many. By now the Musketeers are once again a feature at the palace, and the eyes of most of the courtiers slide right past them; he means to use that however he can.

Strange, how the months since returning to Paris seem to have changed him more than the war ever had. But they’d been largely insulated from these sorts of carefully calculated maneuverings on the southern border, and it’s only grown more dangerous since the king’s death. Athos is under no illusions, knows the games played in salons and drawing-rooms are no less deadly than those of the battlefield -- knows, as well, that the future of France is still far from certain. The treaty Anne had carried back, the rumours he’s already hearing in the streets, court tomorrow are all pieces; what will come depends on how well they can fit those together.

(Strange, too; when he joined the Musketeers, he’d been certain he was leaving the life of a noble behind forever. Lately, it seems he’s drawing on lessons drilled into him during boyhood more and more. He’s beginning to understand some of Tréville’s grumblings from his own captaincy.)

And speaking of those lessons …

“Captain Athos.”

Enghien’s status demands a bow; Athos gives him the precise degree required, studying the other man from beneath the brim of his hat as he does. It’s not the first time they’ve met since returning, when the other man is being fêted in Paris for his victories, but there have always been others around and this is the first chance he’s has to observe him in relative privacy. It only confirms his initial suspicions. Athos doesn’t know what he wants, had little been able to discern it in their briefer meetings after the duc was named marshall on the southern border during the last months of the war, and his actions in the city (he’s as likely to keep the queen’s company as he is those of any one of a half-dozen noble families) have provided little clarity in the matter. This man, perhaps more than any of those at court, merits watching.

“Monsieur le duc.”

“A late evening.”

There’s a question in the otherwise innocuous statement, one Athos dismisses with the slightest of shrugs. “A soldier does his duty no matter the hour.”

A smile quirks the corner of Enghien’s mouth, a fleeting expression that could mean nearly anything when his dark eyes remain opaque. “Just so,” he agrees mildly. “Though that does remind me; I had meant to ask if you would consider sparring sometime. Even with a country between us there was news of your skill with a sword -- I should quite like to test my own against it.”

Whether it’s meant as challenge or overture, it’s a chance he’s not about to pass up. Facing a man with steel strips the lies and social niceties that make court a headache he prefers to avoid, no matter what he might have learned of them as a child; perhaps, with blades instead of words, he’ll finally be able to take the other man’s measure. “When?”

“Oh, soon; I’ll be in the city for some days yet. Shall I have a messenger find you at the garrison?”

Athos just inclines his head in agreement, takes the dismissal for what it is and watches after the other man as he heads towards the horse awaiting him. Someone to watch, indeed; he’ll have to remember to ask Anne who she’s got doing that, what she knows. It’s something he _can_ do now, and the thought eases a little of nerves wound tighter during that brief meeting. No matter what, it’ll be good to have her cynical eye on matters here once more.

His wife and his former captain are in the midst of a heated discussion when he finally makes his way up to Tréville’s office, and he stops in the doorway to watch, arrested by the sheer novelty of the sight. Intellectually, it's hardly unexpected -- is far more likely to be the norm, when he knows how closely they've worked together over the years, but to know and to be confronted with the reality are two very different things.

“Can he really be trusted, though?” Tréville is asking as Athos shuts the door behind him. Neither of them so much as glances his way, though they must have noticed his arrival.

The look Anne gives the older man is exasperated, but there's little real irritation in her reply. “Of course not. But as long as his interests align with the crown’s -- and he knows that they do in this -- he can be trusted to act to their mutual benefit. And with the final treaty needing to be signed by both rulers, it's safe enough to leave him to hammer out the details, especially when he understands what earning Ana’s good will can do for him.” Longueville, then, rather than Enghien as he’d wondered, and from how Anne’s mouth twists into a sardonic line not for the first time, “Do you keep asking me that question because you hope one of these days I'll say yes?”

“Doesn't matter if it's the battlefield or here at court -- you have to have people you can depend on.” He folds his arms and regards her unblinkingly, giving back question for question. “Do you trust _anyone_ , Milady?”

Athos doesn't miss the flinch; whether it was deliberate or not, Tréville’s words have clearly stung. “I trust people to be who they are,” she replies, and the words are carefully neutral. “And I trust Longueville to look to his own ends first, which is why he had to be reminded that they were best served by seeing to France’s. But I would never depend on him to be anything other than what he is.”

Tréville scowls. “You sound too damned much like Armand,” he grumbles, but it has the air of a long-voiced complaint and earns no reply. Only now does he turn to Athos, brows lifting expectantly. “Ready for tomorrow?”

“One group for escort duties to Saint-Denis in the morning, another for court.” Even if there’s no trouble expected, a calculated show of strength will be needed to back up the queen’s presence. Things are still unsettled in the wake of the king’s death; even in this supposed peace, he remains unconvinced that the quiet will last.

“So she settled on midday? Good. Gives them all time to mutter and worry and speculate so they’ll be happy with what there is.” He scrubs a hand against his jaw, frowning. “I’ll be glad when this is done and things are back to normal -- no more treaties or foreign maneuverings.” Anne makes an indelicate sound of disbelief, earning an even deeper scowl. “Enough. We’ll work out what’s next after court tomorrow.”

It’s a clear dismissal, and one Athos isn’t about to protest -- not when everything is arranged and he has the liberty of the hours ahead, and it’s been three years since he last saw his wife, and finally ( _finally_ , because god, he’s burned to touch her since the moment she appeared in the doorway but it hadn’t been the right time and he'd had to tamp down on that desire) he can put aside the captain and be nothing more complicated than a man reunited. He’s lived the months after the war with his mind full of tactics, strategy for the battleground that court always becomes, but with her here the need to breathe her in and forget everything around them, even for a too-brief interval, is almost overwhelming.

“Anne,” he murmurs, and she looks at him, and the tilt of her head and the quirk of her brow don’t entirely mask the questions in her eyes -- questions that are more than reasonable with the time that’s passed, no matter what either of them might have said when they were together last. He searches for the right words, but he will never have Aramis’ silver tongue or Porthos’ easy manner or even d’Artagnan’s blunt honesty, and in the end he just asks, “Will you come?” ‘Home’ sits on the tip of his tongue but he holds it back; he cannot recall the last time that word had fit a place.

She’s silent for a long moment; those green eyes bore into him, searching, and though he doesn’t know what she’s looking for he knows when she finds it by the softening of her gaze. “And here I was starting to think you didn’t miss me,” is all she says, and her tone is dry but she falls into step beside him and it's answer enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Like the first time out, I don’t have a set update schedule. I’m working with an actual (vague) outline this time so at least I know where things are going, but between real life and this being my second multipart story, I really don’t know what to expect -- except quite a few more chapters to go. XD
> 
> History: Louis de Bourbon, currently still the Duc d’Enghien, would have been a teenager at the time this story takes place; to accommodate changes in history (which I’m still blaming on the show doing it first!), I’ve doubled that to make him right around thirty here. (And in fancasting, he’s played by a young Alain Delon -- credit to [Athena](http://athena10867.tumblr.com/) for the suggestion -- because if it’s all imaginary then why worry about relative ages of actors?)
> 
> Just like always, you can find me on [Tumblr ](http://myalchod.tumblr.com/) for any questions or just to chat.


End file.
